


The Water-Horse

by CozyCryptidCorner



Series: The Water-Horse [1]
Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Exophilia, F/M, Female Reader, Human/Monster Romance, Kelpie - Freeform, Kelpie x Reader, Monster Boyfriend, Monster Boyfriend x Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 01:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16882626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: Your grandfather passed, leaving his land to your care. As you clean the place up, going through your grandfather's things, you notice some notes about a mysterious horse that appears to have been living in a pond for years. Could that be the same black stallion that you see from the trees? And why does it always appear when you are outside?





	The Water-Horse

The air has long gone stale, your legs are violently compressed by the seat in front of you, and you are ninety-nine percent sure the man beside you is fighting influenza. Not even the cheap airline-provided blanket can bring you comfort as mucus audibly flows back and forth in the man’s sinus canal.  _I better not get sick_ , you think over and over again even as you exit the plane, quick to grab your things and shimmy up several rows to avoid contact with the walking infection.

 

The train ride to the little Scottish town is blissfully less strenuous on your immune system, with the window open just a crack to let in the fresh country air. You sit by yourself in a corner, computer open to take care of some issues from work. You pay the screen no mind, though, as your eyes find themselves fixed on the passing landscape.

 

Your stop is just overgrown enough to be rustic and cute, with vines crawling over the tiny cafe for waiting passengers. The wheels of your suitcase click and clack across the bricks of the platform as you wander over to where the taxi is waiting for you.

 

The drive to your grandfather’s land is smooth but long. Your eyes fall on the meter as it slowly tallies up the bill, biting at your lip and hoping you don’t exceed the amount of cash you have in your wallet. The rolling hills become recognizable as your memory sharpens, the familiar scent of dewy flowers and grass so unique to this place you briefly forgot it.

 

The cloudy sky becomes blocked by the trees as the car enters the forest. At the base, the trees are relatively small and nonconsequential. The valley the road follows becomes steeper as a tiny river cuts through the stones, rolling over the dark rocks at the base. You remember standing in it knee deep, rubber boots keeping the nearly frozen water away from your skin as your grandfather taught you how to tie a worm around a fish hook.

 

Trees grow larger the further the car drives deeper into the forest. When you are a good few miles away from the town, a house in a clearing where all the trees have been cut down comes into view. The cab rolls to a stop, entering a dirt driveway.

 

You pay the driver, who seems fine without making any small talk. As you pull your last bag from the car, slamming the hood with a satisfying thunk, he tips his hat at you, saying, “stay safe, lass. Takes a special kind of breed to live out here by yourself.”

 

“Will do.” A chill thrums through your bones, as though the man had given you his blessing and now divine intervention will see to it. You watch his car as it disappears back through the forest, leaving the clearing your grandparents had painstakingly created.

 

Grandda always kept a spare key in the flower pot that hangs from the porch ceiling, though the plants have withered considerably since he is not there to keep it up. Your fingers sift through the drying soil, finding it with little trouble, and jam it roughly into the deadlock. It takes some finagling to get the key in just so, finding the perfect position to tease the bolt to unlock.

 

The door doesn’t creak as you push it open, letting the fresh air blow in to purge the smell of dust. Everything in this house is how you remember it, as though it sat unchanged since the last time you visited as a child all those years ago.

 

You step over the threshold once all your things have been collected from the driveway, turning around to mentally check if you left anything outside. As you look, something catches your eye out past the clearing. A large shadow moves slowly through the trees. You can’t chalk it up to being a deer because it is much larger than that. What else can it be, then?

 

It turns to face you, eyes almost glowing in the shadows. A horse, with powerful muscles that can run for days across the countryside without ailing or growing tired. A beautiful showcase of nature, and though you want to get a closer look you don’t dare walk over to it. Wild animals, as your grandfather and cartoon PSAs have drilled into your head, are incredibly dangerous.

 

So you shut the thick door, knowing that like most wild animals, its desire to come in contact with human structures should be minimal. You work to unpack your things, taking the suitcase full of clothes to the guest room upstairs. When you come back to the atrium and glance out the windows, the horse is gone.

 

Cleaning the house proves to be nothing more than dusting since Grandda was every bit meticulously clean as you remember. His old bones had no time for clutter.

 

Deciding to clean the cellar next, all you find are old boxes clearly labeled with their contents. Some are old films Grandda liked taking of his family. Many are old polaroid photos, each box sorted with a kind of genre in mind. Scenic photos of the countryside, one full of you during the summers you spent here, and several pictures he took while he was tracking prey.

 

Some of the boxes hold Gramma’s old clothes, and to your absolute delight, they look like they could fit you. Another box has boy’s clothes, which is confusing because they seem fairly pristine and new, as though barely worn. Maybe one of your cousins left them.

 

Your eyes burn with sadness as you poke through the box with your photos, so you put them away and decide to work on something else.

 

Dinner is chips and some beer that you found by the jars of jam in his pantry. As you eat, you look through the phone book for prospective agencies that you can sell the property through. Though you will admit, selling what is basically your second childhood home leaves your stomach churning uncomfortably. But honestly, what good does this property do for you?  

 

Think of it logically. The only skills you possess require a fairly decently sized city to find a complementary job. You don’t know anything about homesteading, other than the short crash courses your Grandda taught you during your summers here. Though you might find a job that just requires the internet, you don’t even think this place has a router. You would have to modernize this cottage, and that would take more money than it is worth.

 

As you resume your cleaning efforts, you bring out your Bluetooth speaker and hook it up to your phone, turning up the volume. One good thing about this place is that there are no neighbors to complain about the noise.

 

When you go to bed, you are so numb and exhausted that you don’t think about anything. You are out the moment your head lands on the pillow.

 

In the morning, you went out back to look over the garden. Weeds have begun to make their unwanted appearance, thistles dotting the stems of the worse ones. You put on gloves and get to work, pulling and digging the unwelcome plants at the roots.

 

After a while of working, the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You become increasingly uneasy with each passing second, to the point where you have to remember to breathe. Then you notice that it is entirely silent. While previously, there had been the normal background sounds of nature, everything stopped. The birds are not singing, nor are any of the bugs chirping as they had been just moments ago. It is just you and the sound your shovel makes as it plunges into the ground.

 

When you turn to look behind you, there it is. In the trees, the horse from yesterday is watching you. Its coat is pitch, blacker than night. There are twigs and greenery in its hair, as though it rolled through the moss. The horse whinnies, nodding its head up and down, as though beckoning you closer.

 

Instead of approaching it, you calmly stand and walk back to the house, where you shut and lock the door. You wait until the horse retreats back into the forest before resuming your work outside, this time with no interruptions.

 

In the afternoon you go into the garage and test out the old bike.  When you were really little, Grandda would let you sit in the basket with your helmet on and shuttle you around town during errand days. When you test your weight on it, none of the parts creak with age. Your lips curve up into a smile, and you push off onto the road.

 

You head on down to the little town for a little errand trip yourself. When the small basket is full of groceries and cleaning supplies, you head back into the forest. Tiny droplets of rain hit your head, the light storm barely a bother as you pull up into the driveway.

 

There is no sign of the horse, probably hiding somewhere as the light storm gradually grows. Thunder rattles in the distance, and you walk around the house checking to make sure your windows are shut.

 

With the fresh produce you purchased, you can finally cook something nutritional for dinner. As something sizzles pleasantly on the stove, the rain comes down harder and harder until it sounds like someone is throwing rocks on your house.

 

You walk back over to the atrium where you tossed your purse carelessly, just as lightning illuminates your front yard, revealing a man standing in the tall grass.

 

Of course, you do not believe your eyes, not for a moment. And you are not about to run outside in the pouring rain to investigate. When you flip on the porch lights, though, there is no one out there. Just your mind playing tricks on you, you are sure. But you do double check the locks on the doors and windows.

 

The next day a bouquet of wildflowers lay on the porch, right in front of the door. You nearly step on them as you leave the house to survey the damage the storm has caused. Quickly, you look around to see if whoever left the flowers are still within sight, but there is no one in either direction. They certainly were not bought from a flower shop, unless someone picked apart and mashed flowers together from several different arrangements.

 

Even if baffling, the gesture is sweet nonetheless. You go through Grandda’s cabinets until you find one of Gramma’s crystal vases, filling it with water. You set the full arrangement on the kitchen table to keep you company while you eat.

 

When you are ready for a break from clearing the fallen branches away, you decide to reward yourself by exploring the old trails that Grandda used to take you on. You pack yourself a bottle of water, a nutrition bar, and your cell phone in a knapsack before heading out.

 

The forest air itself brings back old memories of you running around amuck, doing your best to let out all your energy before nighttime came. You were always so excited to get away with things you would not be able to do back at home, like roll around in mud and capture bugs. To call your smaller self ‘rambunctious’ would only be the tip of the iceberg. Outrageously stupid is another term that is not far off.

 

You remember almost drowning in one of the ponds, though the memory even now is a little hazy. That was one adventure you never forgot because Grandda would bring it up every chance he got to make sure you understood the two-faced qualities of mother nature: as much as she gives, she can take away.

 

While you do remember the main detail, the fact you almost drowned, you do not remember the exact events that lead up to it. You remember Grandda pulling you out of the muck shouting incoherently in Gaelic, and you remember thinking of how mad he was going to be at you. He  _was_  absolutely furious, but it was mostly directed at himself. After that, you willingly stayed in his sight for the rest of the trip.

 

Several ponds surround the house, and you aren’t sure which one is the one that almost took your life. You decide to simply follow the little trail carved out in the grass and to survey the land. The mossy ground is covered in fallen branches and destroyed bushes from the storm before.

 

Through the trees, you see a large pond up ahead. Surrounding its banks are wildflowers, similar to the ones that were in the bouquet left on your doorstep. You walk over to one of the larger trees, a few paces away from the bank of the pond. You remember this tree, it was your favorite climbing tree.

 

Something childish inside of you has the overwhelming urge to climb it once more. And, hey, you are a fully grown adult. There is no one else around to watch you, and no one to stop you. So guess what? You are going to climb the absolute shit out that tree.

 

Muscle memory leads you to one of the lower branches, a straightforward starting point for a dexterous child to haul herself up on. Though you are not as flexible as you used to be, you still manage to pull yourself up higher and higher, getting to the point where you remember being able to overlook the entire pond area. The branch you straddle on is sturdy and slightly hidden from view.

 

The birds which have been noisily chirping your entire walk suddenly go quiet, all at once. The crickets follow just as swiftly. It is as though someone pressed a mute button on nature, silence descending down around you.

 

The instinct that allowed your ancestors to survive in a much less forgiving environment kicks in, telling you to freeze in place and not to move a muscle. All the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and every cell in your body braces for something unspeakably horrible to happen.

 

Bubbles form near the bank of the pond, water dispersing as a large black mass breaks the surface. You suck in your breath as powerful horse bursts forth, shaking its mane and snorting for air. Your brain rapidly tries to rationalize what you are seeing, but there is no explanation other than the horse being underwater for the entire time you have been here.

 

The horse’s eyes glow a warm green, the edges of its mane covered in sediment from the pond floor. The sides of its ribs are speckled with what looks to be fish scales, clustering around several slits that close a moment after being in the air. As soon as one of its twisted hooves steps onto the bank, the scales shimmer and disappear to leave a simple black coat behind. It trots into the forest, following the trail that you used to get here, and retreats into the trees.

 

You stay in that position, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the branch. Slowly, the sounds of the forest resume, the animals relaxing enough to continue on their day. If the animals are fine with it, then surely you would be okay, right? Your body is trembling, you only notice as you sit up and look around with wide, panicking eyes.

 

The birds will be your silent warning bell, you try to reason, fear keeping you from climbing back down the tree. You can’t stay up there forever, and who knows when that… thing will come back. The climb back down the tree is worse, it feels like your muscles are frozen and you can barely bend your elbows. On the last part, where all you have to do is use a smaller branch as leverage, your foot slips and you fall.

 

You can feel the precise areas where bruises are going to make their ugly appearances on your skin: one up on your shoulder, one on the arm that ended under your hip, and one on your thigh that smacked thoroughly against a root. You scramble up, listening carefully for the telltale signs of the creature’s return, but the birds sing on.

 

Your way back to the cabin could not make itself more stressful. Every snap of a twig is the horse stalking you, every time a bird stops singing is a sign that it is approaching. Cardiac arrest may very well take you before the horse can.

 

The old cabin has never been such a relief to see as it is today. The animals are still making their calls, so you take that as an okay to run back to the front door. You shove your way into the house and lock everything up, then double check the locks. Any curtains get pulled shut to keep anything from looking in. Only when you are sure you are safe, you collapse onto the ground and begin to cry.

 

You try to chalk it up to being a hallucination. Maybe you are just overworking yourself, especially with the loss of your grandfather. Perhaps you have some unresolved trauma, especially if you almost drowned. Your brain might be trying to make sense of a childhood memory that is significantly faded.

 

There is nothing you can do to calm down. You try to make a late lunch, going through the repetitive motions of assembling a sandwich. You find another one of Grandda’s beers and open it, downing half of it in moments. Only then are your nerves eased into a calm, even if it is fake.

 

The food you made sits on the table, untouched, but you just stare at it. If this thing is on Grandda’s land, he would know about it, surely. And with most of the stuff on his property, he would have documented it somehow. Maybe he would have even left you something concrete about it since he left you the land and cabin. He wouldn’t throw you in head first, would he?

 

The basement is exactly how you left it. Down where there are no windows, you suppose that you feel even safer than upstairs. You begin to pick apart the boxes, going through them one by one and carefully reading each label. One is full of journals documenting the weather and comparing it to the local almanac. Another is listing the plants he planted in the garden, measuring their height and crop yield.

 

Your eyes fall onto the box with your old pictures in it. When you put it away, you must have ended up knocking it over when you turned to leave. One of the photos that had fallen out was of you and a little boy you don’t remember. The two of you are playing in the muddy part of the pond you were just at, recognizing the tree in the background as your special climbing tree.

 

He has a head full of black hair, and a huge smile that reveals two missing front teeth. His eyes, though, they catch your attention. It could just be chalked up to the flash hitting his face wrong, but it looks like his eyes are glowing an eerie green.

 

You flip over the photo and read the inscription.  _Lass and Riaghan in the mud._  Lass was Grandda’s nickname for you, which infuriated your parents for some reason, which of course in turn only delighted you further. You tried introducing yourself as Lass on several occasions, labeling your notebooks and school things as Lass, and once asked your mom to legally change your name to Lass. The last bit was probably just to get a rise out of the woman, which it did.

 

But who is Riaghan? You don’t remember him. Though given the evidence in your hands, it is very apparent that the two of you played together. And as you go through more and more photos, you notice that the little boy makes an appearance in many of them.

 

 _Lass and Riaghan go fishing. Lass and Riaghan make lunch together. Riaghan helping teach Lass to swim. Two tired kids after a long day._ You don’t remember any of this. No matter how hard you try, you can’t imagine anyone else besides Grandda during your many trips here.

 

To the side, where the box with your pictures originally was, there is a leather bound book shoved between two boxes. You pull it out and unwrap the leather strap holding it shut, opening it to a random page. A crudely drawn horse decorates one of the pages, along with a small map that you recognize is a layout of the property.

 

Your stomach gurgles, reminding you that half a bottle of beer is not a meal. You gather up the evidence and head back upstairs. The back of your throat itches, but you decide it is just the dust.

 

Twilight casts a gentle red glow through the sink’s window, bathing the table in its hazy light. You switch on a lamp and start setting the photos and journals down around your plate. Mentally, you go over everything you know.

 

In the notebook, Grandda notes a kind of predator animal that hunts small game around the water. There have been four on this property at separate times, often leaving if Grandda made a show of force. The word Kelpie jumps out at you, and on the next page, there is a cutout illustration of a horse standing in a pond, much like the one you saw before. The drawing looks more grotesque, with the mouth opening like a snake’s and the teeth gnarled and sharp.

 

The pages turn as you try flipping to a spot later in the book, eyeing the dates of the entries until you get to the point just before you visited.  _Well, the mystery of the new Kelpie’s gender is solved. She’s a lady and just gave birth to a foal._

 

Taped to the page is a polaroid taken from high up, picturing a large black shape in the water and a smaller one right next to it.  _Little guy can already swim, but often needs to come up for air. Ma Kelpie does not appreciate me being near, but I found a good cliff where she can’t really see me._

 

Another entry.  _Ma Kelpie is teaching the colt to shift into human form. It is amazing to watch, truly. The professor would love to see this._

 

Gramma would be rolling in her grave if she knew the shenanigans Grandda got into after she died.

 

You go forward, around the time that you would be visiting.  _He’s learning English just fine. Seems pretty taken with Lass, the two are inseparable. I warn her not to visit him without me, but the day Lass listens to anyone is the day hell freezes over._

 

There is another picture with you on a little foal’s back, grinning wildly, your hair all askew.  _Lass wanted to play Amazons, which meant that Riaghan had to let her ride him in horse form. He didn’t pull anything sly with her on his back. It might have been because I was watching him with the shotgun in easy reach._

 

You glance back up at the photos tossed hastily on the table, then back down at the book. You turn the pages a few more times until you notice an entry where Grandda’s normally careful handwriting is messy and scrawled.  _Damn thing… Nearly got her. I warned Lass not to play out in the pond without me, but she never listens. I thought I was careful, watching them all the time, but as soon as my back was turned the kelpie’s nature took over._

 

Loud knocking stops your brain from processing what you have just read. Your hair bristles from the sudden jolt of terror that runs through you. Goddamnit, you wish you had already grabbed Grandda’s shotgun from his room. Even if you could run up and get it, it would need to be cleaned and loaded, neither things you know how to do.

 

Slowly, you approach the door, opening it open as far as the chain lock will allow. A man stands there, completely naked, with a slash cut down on his side. Blood oozes from the wound, cascading down onto the man’s leg.

 

“I’m terribly sorry to put you out, miss, but I’m in need of some assistance.” His voice is strained, clearly in pain. His black hair is messy and has some twigs and leaves caught up in it.

 

You shut the door to unlock the chain, throwing it open again and ushering the man inside. He must have been attacked by one of those things, the kelpie. Relocking the door, you instruct him to go sit on the kitchen while you find a first aid kit.

 

Grandda always kept one in the closet adjacent to the living room, which you are quick to find and retrieve. Since there are really no clinics or hospitals close, there are enough supplies and equipment in the box to undergo minor surgeries. You take it back towards the kitchen.The man is standing like a statue, staring down at the contents of the table.

 

“Oh, that, those are some things my grandfather had. I’m cleaning the place, and came across… it.” Your voice trails off as he turns to look at you with those too green eyes.

 

It doesn’t take much for you to piece everything together. The first aid kit falls from your hands, onto the floor.

 

“Wait-” He tries taking a step towards you, but you are quick to back away. Your hand braces on the railing of the stairs, ready to book it towards the rifle if he makes another move. Even if it does not work, at least the sight of a gun might ward him off. In theory.

 

“I’m sorry. Please.” The man stands still for you, holding out his hands as if trying to pacify your nerves. “I won’t move, I promise. I just- it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

 

You don’t move. You don’t breath. The reptilian part of your brain tells you that if you stand very, very still, then maybe he will forget you are there.

 

“Do you… remember me?” He asks hopefully eyes roaming your face for any semblance of recognition for him.

 

His face falls when you give him the slightest shake of your head. He looks at you with such despair that you actually feel sorry for him. He looks down at his wound and looks back at you. “I need to patch this up.”

 

You look down at the first aid kit and back at him, giving him a slight nod to proceed. He picks it up and sits down in one of the kitchen chairs, clearing away the old photos with a nostalgic smile. Holding one up for you, he says, “Remember this? You loved playing Amazons. Every night you would read me a worn out copy of Wonder Woman and point out all the important characters.”

 

Approaching him still does not appeal to you, but standing in the ready-mode of fight or flight also puts a strain on your muscles. You sit down on the stairs, hand still on the rail, watching him like a hawk. He opens the box and looks mildly confused by all the contents.

 

“Use the disinfectant wipes first.” You find your voice, still tense.

 

His grin lights up his whole face, teeth perfectly white and definitely regular looking from where you sit. “Thank you.” He rips open one of the packets and begins cleaning away the blood on his skin. You suck in your breath at the side of the gash.

 

“Oh, this is nothing.” He tries to reassure you, looking through the bandages. “Just a little territory fighting. Ever since your grandfather stopped making shows of force, several kelpies have tried taking claims on your water.”

 

“And you fight them?” You timidly move towards him, figuring that with that wound, you could fight him off if you need. If. Slowly twisting the kit to face you, you begin to dig around for the proper stitching tape that will help close the skin “Well, yes. I do live on this land, too, after all.” He stands so you can see the wound. “But I was hoping that you would come back.”

 

You apply the bandaging tape. “I see.” When you are finished, you stand back up and wipe your hands of blood. “I think you should leave.” Your voice is firm, but inside you are shaking. You don’t know what to think of him, Riaghan, and you can’t process things clearly with him next to you.

 

His shoulders slump. “If that is what you wish.” Without being told again, he walks out of the kitchen, turning around to look at you one last time before leaving, shutting the door behind him.

 

You let out a loud breath you did not know you were holding. Leaving the mess on the kitchen table, you head upstairs to Grandda’s bedroom. You find something to help you sleep, taking it without blinking. All you really want to do it sleep and no way would your hyperactive brain allow you to do so with what just happened.

 

When you wake the next day, your throat feels dry and slightly sore. Internally groaning, you roll out of bed to find something to hopefully nip whatever you are developing in the bud. When you walk downstairs, you are faced with the unpleasant reality of what happened last night.

 

For breakfast, you sit down and read all of Grandda’s notes you can. In the back of the journal are key points of folklore that he had copied out to test. Several things, such as can change shape from horse to human had a little check mark next to it. Other things had little x’s to disprove the statement. Some of the items on the list are still untested.

 

Taking a sip of your honey lemon tea, you turn the page to find an entire entry on how to properly capture a kelpie. Grandda wrote that you need to take their necklace while they are in human form, you are safe from their hunger and they must bow to your will. None of that really helps, because you don’t plan on getting close enough to grab it.

 

There is another bouquet waiting for you as you step outside to the front porch. Like the last one, you find a vase and put the flowers on the living room coffee table. Then you head back outside to work on the flowers.

 

The morning air had a crisp chill to it, the perfect kind of weather for grueling work. You keep at the weed pulling, even venturing into pruning some of the dead leaves off of the plants.

 

“Can I help?”

 

Your soul nearly launches to the astral plane. There he is, naked as the day he was born, standing in the tall grass behind you. When you do not respond, he frowns slightly and starts playing with the silver string around his neck.

 

“I know you don’t trust me. I would like for you to.”

 

You look back down to the weed you are working on because your eyes have been wanting to roam toward the nude man’s equator. It isn’t as though you have had a good long look, but you have had snippets where you accidentally glanced at it.

 

“Would you trust me if I…” His voice trails off as he hesitantly pulls at the string around his neck. “I mean, if you have this? I could help clear the branches, and you would not have to fret about me biting you.”

 

He offers it, eyes ghostly but sincere. With shaking hands, you reach over and snatch it before he had a chance to change his mind. In a blink, he had turned back into the beautiful black horse that had been following you around. You wrap the chain around your own neck and clasp the end.

 

The horse whinnies and stomps its hooves, trotting over to the garage. He pokes a hoof at the door and looks at you expectantly. When you open the garage, the horse leads you over to where an antique bridle hangs on the wall, which you had initially thought was just decoration. It takes a few tries and some time of trial and error, but you finally manage to hook him up. He works with you, no complaints, for the rest of the day.

 

The sun is setting when you manage to undo all the straps of the bridle. Once it is back in its place, hanging in the garage, you turn back to him and try to return the necklace with shaking hands. He snorts, shaking his head, and trots back into the forest towards the pond. You place it back around your neck and retreat into the bathroom, where you give yourself a well-earned shower.

 

The next morning, he is out in your front yard waiting for you. “So like, are you completely carnivorous or would you enjoy one of these?” You offer him an apple as you lean against the porch railing. He answers by taking the apple from your hand and swallowing it whole.

 

You jerk back when his muzzle tries to come closer, certain he is after your fingers. He immediately withdraws, looking hurt, but understanding. It is easier to put the bridle on him the second time, since you remember, for the most part, how everything is supposed to go.

 

The work is finished late afternoon, a while after you break for lunch. You find one of those horse brushes and start working on his hide, giving him what you hope is a good horse massage as a thank you. As you brush, you what is left of the gash on his side, which is healed for the most part.

 

“There you go. Good horse.” You pat his muzzle awkwardly. When you offer the silver necklace again, he refuses.

 

The next day you are definitely sick. Your cough is watery, your throat is sore, and you are pretty sure you are sporting a fever. You toss and turn, not wanting to get out of bed but everything it too hot and you want something cold to drink.

 

When you must up the energy to walk downstairs, you notice him standing in the front yard. You walk out of the door and sneeze. “Here.” You try offering the necklace, your fevered mind riding on the hope he wouldn’t gobble you up if you are disease ridden.

 

You sneeze again, loudly, then fall into a coughing fit. The horse gently takes the necklace in its teeth, careful to move slowly as to not startle you. He turns back into a man, still very naked, and quickly ushers you back into the house.

 

You remember him slipping you back into your bed, getting you a glass of water when you call. He digs around in the medicine cabinet to find something to help your body fight the infection and makes sure you always have honey lemon tea on your bedside. You think he lays by your side during the night, but you are not certain.

 

In fact, many days pass with you barely conscious. Cool hands place damp rags over your forehead to cool your body, sometimes rubbing your feverish arms to comfort you. Lullabies soothe you into a dreamless sleep, in the old language that Grandda would sometimes talk in.

 

Your fever breaks sometime during the night, because one morning you are able to wake up and sit upright in bed. Riaghan is opening your window to let in the fresh morning air. When he sees you awake, his face breaks down with relief.

 

“I’m so glad,” He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, “you were in so much pain.”

 

“You took care of me?” Your voice cracks with dryness and emotion.

 

“Of course I did.” He lifts one of your hands up and kisses it. “I loved you since we first met in the forest, forever ago, when we were just colts.”

 

“Then why… Grandda said you tried to drown me.” You can’t not know what happened.

 

His eyes widen. “Is that why-” he glances down at the ground, his lips twitching. “Oh, my love. That wasn’t me. I would have never done anything to harm you. Please believe me.”

“Who did, then?”

 

“My mother.” There are tears in his eerie green eyes, glittering in the morning sunlight. “Your grandfather claiming ownership of this land never sat well with her. I think she tolerated me playing with you because there was no one else my age. I just remember there being an argument between your grandfather and her, and how livid she was. I never thought she would try to take it out on you.” He clasps his hands around yours. “I understand if you don’t want me to be around. Please, though. Please consider it. I will help around the house. I can pull heavy things into town for you. I can hunt deer.”

 

You look at Riaghan’s face, memorizing every freckle, the grooves, and angles of his jaw and nose. His mouth and lips that look like they were sculpted by Michelangelo, his face so symmetrical it would make every renaissance artist cry. His eyes are like a spyglass to his soul, and you see not a shred of evil in there. You clasp your other hand around his, and plead one word to him: “Stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Youtuber voice* If you liked what you read, smash that kudos button! Want to tell me how much you liked this fic? Leave me a comment! Want to keep tabs on my writings? Subscribe and you get a free (yes, FREE) email every time I publish a fic! Want me to write more? Shower me with praise because positive reinforcement motivates me to work!
> 
> [I drew Riaghan for your viewing pleasure ](https://cozycryptidcorner.tumblr.com/post/178267846664/heres-my-boy-this-is-riaghan-a-kelpie-in-his?is_related_post=1)


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